


Clocking Out

by Cerise_anouk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cute Peter Parker is Cute, Darcy's Boobs strike again, Domestic Avengers, Feel-good, Friendship is Magic, Gen, James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers if you squint, Mama Darcy, One Shot, Team Fluff, Team as Family, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:29:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerise_anouk/pseuds/Cerise_anouk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker gets to see the Avengers dressed down. He also meets Darcy's boobs, but that's just a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clocking Out

In the aftermath of a battle, when the bad guys of the day were defeated and the dust had cleared to show that the victorious heroes were, indeed, victorious, the people of whatever city (usually New York) were unlucky (lucky) enough to require a saving by the Avengers would pour out of their busted up buildings and into the ruble filled streets. They would stare in awe at the beings that were before them; Captain America a rock hard poster boy for truth, justice and the American Way, the Falcon an imposing figure beside him. Black Widow the sultry and deadly beauty, nary a hair out of place. Thor the warrior God of space and a bygone time only diminished in size by the giant green rage monster that was the Hulk, daring any one or thing to come his way with a baring of his teeth. Scarlet Witch, exotic and mysterious, delicate in form but packed with a powerful magic. Hawkeye was a beefy bulldog of a man looking like he just came out on top in a back ally fight. The lanky but alien looking newest member, clinging upside down to chunk of fallen building, his red and blue outfit making him stand out. The silent Winter Soldier cut a dark and tortured figure next to all the brightness, sucking in all the light around him with only his bionic arm to shine with the frigidness of his name. Hovering above them all, was the loud and obnoxious Iron Man appearing even more so compared to the silently hovering Vision, the epitome of calmness and Zen. All pillars of indestructible bravery and skill.  

The survivors would sing praises. They’d give interviews on where they were and the harrowing feats of bravery they’d witnessed, thank God and Thor and say hi to Mom, then they’d grumble about the cleanup and “Why Me” for months after.

While the news channels were stuck on repeat, showing a looping reel of shots from the fight, interviews with “survivors” and past clips from previous fights, the team would disappear into the belly of their fancy jet, Captain America giving a patriotic wave to the crowd as the door closed midstream on Tony Stark’s cocky speech.

In the deafening silence, the team let out a collective sigh and sank into their seats, some wincing as injuries made themselves known. Tony took the spot next to Hulk, patting a massive green bicep as he did.

“Good job today, big guy,” his response came in the form of a rumble.

Steve plopped down next to Bucky and leaned his head back against the cool metal wall, “Take us home, ‘Tash.”

* * *

 

On the ninetieth story of Avengers Tower was the communal floor.

While each team member had a private suite of rooms to call home, the ninetieth floor was arguably the most lived-in space in the building. Walled in on all sides by glass windows that at the flick of a switch became opaque, the communal floor was a combination living room/kitchen/rec room. It was an eclectic combination of modern amenities, soft leathers, stone, metal, and warm wood.

 Marble tile flowed across the floor in a swirling honeyed wave, heated of course, only ending when it hit the edge of the sunken living room where you stepped down onto a deep cloud of thick carpet, its softness an accent to the cushy, buttery leather couches and recliners so wide two people could fit comfortably, swathed in cream colored Italian leather mounded with downy pillows and cozy throw blankets. The focal point of the space was a giant state of the art flat screen currently displaying the news footage from the latest battle with the sound muted.

Glassed off in one corner was the rec room, where two pool tables, a foosball table, an air hockey table, retro arcade games and another giant TV with every game station known to man surrounded by more leather couches lived. The glass walls could be folded away to open the room up to the rest of the floor if need be.

The state of the art kitchen faced both with endless butcher block countertops, a six burner range that also had a built in hibachi grill and deep fryer, three ovens that could fit thirty pound turkeys and all the fixin’s, a glass-fronted fridge and freezer combo that the entire team could fit into, and a pantry stocked for a zombie apocalypse. Plus every kitchen gadget and doodad known to QVC.

This was Darcy Lewis’ domain.

When the Avengers got the call to assemble, Darcy stood with the rest of the noncombatants (basically just Jane. Pepper had a multi-billion dollar company to run) on top of the tower and wished Earth’s only hope off, watching the quinjet disappear before heading back down to the communal kitchen. While the team beat the evil flavor of the week into the ground, the curvy intern beat, whipped and mixed various foods into submission in the kitchen, filling the space with delicious scents. Victorious super heroes could eat like nobody’s business, so Darcy made it hers to have a feast waiting for them when they returned. Nine times out of ten you could find Jane there as well, their jobs reversed; the astrophysicist filling the role of assistant and Darcy that of mad (but _brilliant_ ) scientist.

Flash forward a few hours post fight; our heroes have been to medical and patched up where patches were needed, the grime of the fight washed down drains in hot showers, and un-Hulked. Armor has been replaced by worn T-shirts, yoga pants, thick socks, baggy sweaters and sweat pants with elastic waists so worn they were barely held up by chiseled hips. One by one they make their way to the communal floor, only to find themselves herded like lost lambs to the deep couches of the sunken living room and taken care of by the mouthy brunette. Some, like Bruce and Steve, put up a token fight, mostly just because it’s become part of the routine, while the rest have long since resigned themselves to Darcy’s pushy brand of nurturing and have even come to look forward to it after a particularly rough battle.

The only one who has yet to experience this is the team’s youngest and newest sort-of member, the gabby web slinger, one Peter Parker.

When the quinjet had landed, the veteran members had gingerly made their ways off; wincing as pulled muscles and aching bruises had made themselves known, limping towards the elevator. Peter had hung back, not quite sure if he was supposed to head home or follow their lead and head down into the belly of building with them. He kind of just showed up to the party early in the fight and just sort of stuck with them at the end. Were they going to, like, debrief? Did he need to be a part of that? Was his input even necessary for stuff like that? Aunt May was working a double and the chaos hadn’t happened near his part of town so really—

“Hey kid, you comin’ or what?” Tony Stark was standing in front of the open elevator with Captain America, the rest of the team already in it and eyeballing him.

“Well, uh- I- Um, Mr. Stark-“ he stammered, fidgeting, and shifting from foot to foot.

“Just get in the damn elevator, kid.” The one called Hawkeye said, tired amusement coloring his voice.

“Yeah, sure!” the kid quick stepped it, “Right, I’ll- uh- just squeeze in right here-“ he shimmed his way in wincing at the grimace the Winter Soldier makes when he steps on his foot “sorry, Mr. Win- Winter Soldier, sir,”

“Kid.” Perter winced at the exasperation in Tony Stark’s voice, “Just quit while you’re ahead.”

“You got it.”

So here he finds himself, squeaky clean from the shower and wearing a pair of generic gray sweats (except he’s pretty sure he read Armani on the tag before he slipped them on) and an Iron Man tee, standing awkward as hell in the swankest living room he’s ever been in that’s as big as the whole _floor_ of the apartment building he and Aunt May lived on-

“Hi. You must be Spider Dude. I’m Darcy, come on in and get comfy.”

Peter only gets a blink in before he’s being pulled along by a short and curvy brunette towards a pit of couches and chairs where the rest of the Avengers are huddled.

“Oh-uh, I’m not really-ah, uh part of the team or, uh anythi- I mean, Mr. Stark had me help him that one time but- yeah,“ He’s so busy trying to not sound like a complete moron that he doesn’t notice the small step that edges the sitting area and stumbles as the floor disappears out from under him and he drops six inches. The only thing that keeps him steady is the girl and in his surprise he accidently shoots off a wad of web and it sticks to the ceiling as everybody stares at him.

Peter cringes. Oh. My. God. That was _so_ embarrass-

“Way to blow your load, Spunky.” Tony says, amusement clear in his voice, and someone in the room coughs on a laugh.

Peter palms his face, feeling his ears go so red they’ll probably catch on fire. He can’t believe he just did that. Why didn’t he just leave his wrist bands with his suit? Somebody just- “Kill me now,” he mutters, horrified, into his hand.

“Come on Iron Douche, leave him alone,” the girl (Darcy?) says, coming to his rescue, then guides him to a spot on a couch between the Falcon and Tony and pushes him into it, “You sit here. Let Mama take care of you.”

“Uh-“ he barley gets out before he chokes on his spit and whatever it was he was going to say when she leans over and into him; his face almost smushing into her impressive cleavage and _wow,_ he’s staring at the nicest pair of breasts he’s ever seen in person and-

She pulls back with a thick knit blanket in hand and doubles it across his lap, tucking the ends in under his feet and the edges of his thighs. The whole time he couldn’t take his eyes offa her chest; hypnotized by the slight bounce and jiggle they did as she moved.

“There. Now, tell Mama Darcy where it hurts.”

For an instant his brain completely shuts down and reboots; the old school dial-up sound screeching through his head as all the blood in his body drains to his crotch at that statement and he hopes to _God_ that no one notices anything through the thick blanket on his lap-

“I’m good!” he yelps, voice cracking on the ‘d’, “S-swell. Not a scratch on me. Nope, perfectly fine. Tip top.” Pleasedon’tlookathiscrotch, _please_ don’tlookathiscrotch-

Darcy places a hand on one voluptuous hip and cocks her head at him, taking stock of him before nodding in satisfaction. “Alright. Food. Definitely food. Not gonna lie dude, you’re skinny as fuck. Stay.” Spinning on that last command, she goes to take care of it, mussing Sam’s hair on her way to the kitchen.

Peter can’t help himself, his eyes lock on her ass as she sashays away.

“Hey!” a hand connects with the back of his head, “She’s a little old for you don’t you think?”

The teen jumps, snapping his head to the left to meet the knowing look in Tony’s eyes with his guilty ones, “Don’t tell Aunt May!” Came his default panic request.

Bucky snorts, “Don’t sweat it, kid. Darce tells everyone the first look’s free.”

“But _only_ the first, we clear son? Ladies get shown respect around here,” Steve added on, wearing his ‘I mean business’ face.

Once again Peter felt his ears ignite at being caught out by the entire Avengers team. _Way to make_ _a_ _first impression, Parker_ , he thinks dejectedly to himself.

“Do not despair, my young friend. My shield sister is dear to all of us, and is in possession of a very caring soul. As you have shown yourself a worthy ally on the field of battle I too, am sure you shall prove yourself as a worthy comrade.” Thor said reassuringly.

The young super hero blinks in slight confusion at the smiling blond behemoth, “….Thanks?”

“You are most welcome.”

A nudge from his right, and he looks at a smirking Falcon, “He means it’s cool man. Relax.”

Before he can formulate a response Darcy’s back in front of him, setting an overloaded plate down on his lap.

“Shazam. Dig in, and don’t forget to tip the cook,” placing a mug of something warm in his hand, she flounces over to the couch Steve and Bucky are sharing and plops down in the middle. Snuggling under a blanket that had been left there, she stretches out and pillows her head in Bucky’s lap and wiggles her bare feet into Steve’s.

“Cue the movie!”

The giant TV flickers and Indian Jones and the Temple Of Doom appears on the screen.

“Fuck yeah,” Clint cheers and settles deeper into his chair.

Not paying attention to the film, Peter takes a tentative bite of some sort of cheesy casserole on his plate and almost moans. Then he takes a cautious sip of his drink and about comes in his barrowed Armani sweat pants as the best hot chocolate he’s ever tasted rolls across his tongue. Man, if this was how these super heroes ate after a fight he could get used to this. He usually celebrated with slightly freezer burned Hot Pockets. He quickly scarfed down the food then sat back with a contented sigh and for the first time since being pushed into his seat takes in his surroundings, blinking in mild surprise at what’s before him.

What he sees in the people around him is the exact opposite of the Avengers he’d been fighting beside only hours ago.

Tony’s slouched down on the couch next to him, dressed in almost identical gray sweats as him, only these ones were obviously more lived in than the ones he was barrowing. He’s hugging a fat pillow loosely to his chest, and the shirt he’s wearing is faded to the point of almost being see through. His glasses are perched on the edge of his nose as he divides his attention between the screen of his phone and the TV. Peter notices that there’s a hole in one of the toes of his socks from where they sit crossed on the coffee table.

On his other side, Falcon’s so low on his cushion that his head barely tops the wide armrest, propped up on the knuckles of one hand. The cheek not resting on his fist has a wide Hulk print bandage stuck to it, hiding a random nic he’d gotten in the battle. He’s wearing an old Air Force tee, balancing a can of coke on his chest and loose, fleece pants, his legs spread wide open. The only thing keeping him from sliding off the couch entirely is the set of his Ugg slippered feet on the floor.

Glancing off to one side he feels his eyes trying to bug out of his head. Bruce Banner is almost boneless in one of the massive chairs; eyes shut, legs stretched out across the matching ottoman, his bare feet are sticking out passed the ankles of his blue pinstriped pajama bottoms. His arms are folded across the loose white tee that stretches across his chest and his head rests on the shoulder of the Black Widow, who is curled up next to him, toned bare legs tucked up beneath her and almost hiding the compression wrap around one of her ankles. She’s wearing the button up pajama shirt that obviously matches the pants that Banner’s wearing and it swamps her petit figure, almost hiding the fact that she’s wearing a pair of silk lounge shorts as well. Her hand is buried in his curly hair, her fingers doing the slow, rhythmic motions of a scalp massage. In her free hand is a glass of wine, and Peter can just see the edges of the white bandage that wraps her wrist peeking out from the end of her shirt cuff.

Next to them on the wide chaise is the massive figure of Thor. Laid out in a pair of oversized basketball shorts and a flannel with a plain tee stretched tight underneath, he takes up all of the available real estate the chair has to offer. Curled up in his lap is his dainty lady love. She too, is wearing a flannel over a tank, and her legs are covered in pj bottoms decorated with cartoon cows jumping over moons. Long, fine boned fingers absently twist the god's loose golden locks, still damp from the post battle shower.  

Laying in a pile of blankets on the plush carpet is the other female member of the team, Scarlet Witch. The only part of her that’s visible is the top of her head from the nose up where it rests on the floor, skeins of chocolate colored hair pooling around her. She’s already fast asleep and a mug of strong smelling tea sits forgotten on the floor in front of her. As the teen distractedly watches the steam rise over its lip a maroon hand picks it up and Vision takes an absentminded sip from his spot perpendicular to the napping woman. He’s laying stomach down, and he’s got one of the large throw pillows folded in half and bunched under his arms. He’s wearing a Henley, the sleeves pushed up to reveal slightly shimmery forearms and black silk lounge pants, his maroon feet crossed at the ankle.

Letting his eyes fall on the occupants of the other couch Peter once again feels embarrassment heat him. Captain America is in a white wife beater and baggy gray sweats that bunch at the ankles and (oh _man_ ) he’s (heh!) wearing socks with a pair of Nike sandals. There’s a bag of ice taped to one large chiseled shoulder and Peter quickly looks away when he notices the Captain’s big hands absentmindedly rubbing one of Darcy’s tiny feet with long, sure strokes of his thumbs.

He skips over the girl (who’s got a hand digging in a bag of kettle corn) and settles his eyes on Steve’s dark counterpart. The other ex-Russian assassin in the room has his hair, also damp, pulled back in a low tail, rogue strands flirting with his cheeks. Unlike his partner, he’s topless, displaying the tightly wrapped bandages that span his ribs. Low slung on his hips are identical gray pants with bare feet peeking out. His hands are also busy only instead of feet, they’re buried in thick curls of mahogany hair.

Finishing out the circle, is Hawkeye. Kicked back in a recliner the guy’s wearing a pair of well-loved plaid bottoms and a vintage Alf baseball tee. He’s got a beer loosely clutched in one hand and a large bowl of buttery popcorn nestled in his lap. He’s got two large bags of ice balancing on each knee and both slipper socked feet are resting elevated on thick cushions.

If anyone had ever asked Peter to guess what the Avengers did after they finished kicking ass he’d never of pictured what he was seeing. He’d only ever thought of the super heroes as just that- super heroes. Never this human. And, looking at all of them, he thinks that’s the way they want the rest of the world to see them. This is private. This is personal. This, at the end of the day, is what they really fought to protect. This home, this _family_ they’d found in one another.

Peter wiggles back into the couch and snuggles deeper in. Settling back with a sigh, he takes another sip of the heaven in his cup and watches as Indi fights his way out of a Chinese club, a small, content smile playing across his lips. He could totally get used to this.

* * *

 

The next time he teams up with them, nobody has to invite him onto the quinjet after the battle. Settling between Clint and Vision he pulls his mask off and asks the archer, “Ya think Darce made those bacon jalapeno puff things again? She’s gotta’ve made ‘em right? Right. I mean, they’re like the best thing I’ve ever eaten- don’t tell Aunt May- _ever_. No way she forgot to make ‘em. All cheesy and gooey and salty and spic-“

Vision claps a hand on his shoulder and the contact startles him into silence. Sharing an amused look with Clint over the boy's head, the red caped crusader reassures the young man, “I am sure Darcy has not forgotten to make your favorites, Peter.”

The teen lets out a contented sigh of relief, not noticing the humorous looks being passed around at his expense, “Cool.”

Being a super hero _definitely_ had its perks.


End file.
